


Honeymoon

by brittlelimbs



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flight Attendants, Anal Fingering, Forced Feminization, M/M, Manipulation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Vacation, flight attendant/pilot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 03:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: Graves takes Credence to paradise.Credence is only a little bit guilty that feeling like he's been slipped into Grave's back pocket is the best part of this.[pilot/flight attendant!AU. Commercial airline pilot Graves takes a smitten flight attendant Credence on a vacation that  turns sinister quick]





	Honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

> this idea has been floating around for ages so i thought i'd take a crack. usual disclaimers apply: unbeta'd, unscripted, and generally ill thought-out. 
> 
> thank you to @waywardgraves for organizing this anon collection! <3

Graves takes Credence to paradise. 

Credence is only a little bit guilty that feeling like he's been slipped into Grave's back pocket is the best part of this. He tries to pretend it isn't, but it is; somewhere on the track between the little broke-down tiki bar and the craggy, narrow beach, a realization hits him, heavy as a lightning strike: besides Graves, nobody else knows where he is. Or, functionally nobody. He hasn't spoken to Ma, or his sisters, for the better part of five years. Newt has been out of the picture for three. Sure, some of his co-attendants might gossip about it a bit if he disappeared, swoop-snatch-vanished. Delta would notice, just like the bills would, goes without mentioning, real life meandering on somewhere in the background, but—there's a lot of daytime-TV-worthy spirited away potential, here. 

Be careful, Tina—motherish Tina, lonely in Credence’s life—had told him, propped against the jamb of the door to his bedroom, a space which doubled as his kitchen, and living room, because apartments in New York run like closets. She watched him labor in the middle of the rug, packing up his whole life into a battered duffle while he pretended, at the same time, that he wasn’t. 

I don’t trust this guy, Credence.

The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling made her hair and eyes look flat and black. 

You don’t trust most men. Credence held up a threadbare polo shirt and critiqued it at arm’s length; he hadn’t many clothes. He was probably going to meet Graves dressed like a cash-strapped twelve year old. Like the kids they’d take back at the Home, the hardscrabbled ones who’d seen way, way too much, who had the bodies of children but none of their rawness.   
Tina rolled her eyes. Cop. Nosey by nature. Credence knew she’d been looking over his shoulder from the apartment she shared with her sister, kitty corner to his, for the past few months. Also knew she didn’t often like what she saw, but hung him around with a dogged sort of persistence, something that he found irritating and endearing in equal turns.   
Be careful-- As if she knew Percival Graves. The sweetness of his puppydog eyes, couched in the kindliness of a folded face that knew, that had seen, that had pushed life in more directions than Credence could blow his nose at. How could she see that, know the rough pleasurableness of him, beyond Credence’s slurred, ecstatic accounts over drinks once or twice (vodka straight, the Russian way, out of chipped ceramic mugs on the nubbled-down mat of Tina’s carpet). As if she knew this man, at all, or even knew Credence, beyond that he was something worth protecting. 

Let me give you my email, at least. So you have backup, she pled. She hastily pulled a scrap of paper from the pocket of her felt coat, lunged past Credence to snag a pen from his desk. She scribbled the address and pushed it into his hand. Shoot me a message when you’ve gotten there? Her mouth slipped into one of her melancholy-half smiles, eyes big and wet and much too open. 

Credence looked at the address, slashed across the margin of the Burger King receipt. 

Sure, he caved, finally. I will.

 

Credence has realized, slowly, with pleasure, that nothing is tying him anywhere. Nothing, not even a cat to feed. A houseplant to water. He has bared his trembling throat to Graves, and the man has gripped it delicately between his terrible, Brooklyn-pearly jaws. So to speak. 

It feels delicious. 

They showed up on a Wednesday afternoon after a long haul on a jumbo jet then a short jaunt on a bi-prop plane, departure from nowhere. Graves had gruffly dropped a pamphlet into his hands a few weeks ago during a nine-hour mandatory layover, a vague indicator as to their destination; somewhere in Melanesia, or an atoll near Fiji, or an islet more lagoon than land. Three weeks, bare-trembling on the edge of what he could afford to take off after three years of nonstop work. Credence didn't care about the where of it, honestly. Told Graves as much. The island was a crumb of green in blue that could be covered up with one thumbprint if you pressed it to a map, and that was enough.   
He was more concerned with being in the context of planes and seeing Grave's big hands occupied by a beat-up paperback copy of Greasy Lake, or curling on Credence's knee, instead of on the yoked on the cockpit console. Passenger Graves, almost as startling as Plainclothes Graves had been on first meeting. Henley, denim, utility-intimacy somehow hidden beneath the peeled-back uniform.   
A pilot and a flight attendant seated in economy, aisle twenty one, ‘A’ and ‘B’ on the ticket. It was all a little funny, if your sense of humor leaned that way. There was some chop, somewhere over the South Pacific, in the middle of the fifth hour; Credence and Graves sat impassive while babies around them screamed and middle aged moms in white pants tight-knuckled their inflight-purchase cups of Pinot Grigio. Plastic crinkled. Overhead bins shuddered. The pilot came on the intercom and caressed them with a few choice phrases, like just a little bit of chop ahead, folks, and should clear up, presently, nothing to worry about, and they were on New Zealand Air but if it wasn’t the same twang Credence had crewed for one thousand times-- he laughed and shook his head.   
“You guys must have a secret language,” he said, feeling stupid immediately.   
Graves just looked at him, sly from his gorgeous profile, the crows feet at the corner of his eye deepening as he tipped the tiniest smile.   
“Trade secret,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “They teach you how to talk before they teach you how to handle the stick. Helps convince them there’s less wrong than they think.” He squeezed Credence’s knee again, and it felt like precisely that: the familiar Americana drawl, the comfort, the confident hands of a man who carried life and death between them on a city-to-city basis. Credence felt the stale air of the cabin grow dizzily romantic, and had to look away. 

When they deplaned, he had bitten his lip. Tried, and failed, to adjust to the humidity and Grave's ass in Bermuda shorts. 

Island life is lush. Graves rents the bungalow because he's the one with the captain's salary, as per sketched-out agreement. It's a modest thing, but the patio is cool-ish in the choking humidity, wide and shaded, the bathroom painted aquamarine, and the linoleum in the kitchen all tilting down to a pit in the middle of the floor in a way that seems accidental. The ants are ferocious, so they keep all the food in the fridge, bread corn flakes potato chips sugar tin everything, and it makes the little dinged up box go lukewarm at best, but that's alright. Graves seems to like feeding Credence fruit from his hand most times, anyway, like they're in the romance novels he snuck from the library as a kid. Pulpy, decadent. Credence feels giddy and obscene when they do this, Graves thumbing out the guts of a passionfruit and dipping the seeds into Credence's waiting mouth, ridiculously messy, crunchy, the sweet and cheap meat of island life running down his chin. They start indulging themselves in the shade as a habit and Credence balefully wishes that everything that sustains him would come from Graves hand.

The house doesn’t have a pool, but who needs a pool when you have the fucking ocean, as Graves says, just one modest backyard away. He directs Credence to a set of rough hewn steps right after they settle, bleached wooden things tucked away in the palm thicket that bars the vacation homes from the beach proper. Says he’ll be right down. Credence flies to the shore in a flash.   
He clears the trees and, for a moment, he’s blinded. Everything is white, and hot, and so overwhelming that he can feel his thin, subterranean-creature skin begin to burn, even as he stumbles around in his shitty plastic flip-flops.   
This must be heaven, he thinks at the peak of it. And then the ecstasy recedes, painfully revealing itself as the fervor of dehydration and jetlag, but Credence doesn’t mind. Graves has rented the property above a narrow, dead-coral beach, sun-drenched, curving away with the shape of the island. An islet sways, palm-laden, at a swimmable distance offshore.  
He looks out towards the sea. Way out, tucked against the horizon, he can see the whitecaps where the open water meets the reef and breaks over it, but right here the water is smooth and shallow. A lagoon; it’s hedging, protective, a comforting sort of limit that makes Credence feel warm all over to know that the endlessness of blue on blue would be just precisely as fixed, even if he was to run all the way around the island’s edge. This is the whole world; you have to take a two hour boat ride—or fly, he realizes with a wry shiver, you have to fly—to get to the closest neighbor. Graves has delivered him to a place with a sort of singular security Credence hasn’t known in years. He’s reminded of performing nighttime vigils as a child, knobbly knees on the hard pew, threadbare jacket draped over his shoulders. The weight of his ill-fitting, secondhand clothes, too big, clunky, shoes no exception because Ma knew he’d outgrow everything with devilish quickness. They weighed on him, drowned him, but something about it—good. Holding.   
Credence ponders the edge of the big, underlying backbone of the island (coral shards accreted by bird shit and time, to anyone in the know) with the white, tender bottoms of his feet. The shelf digs into his delicate arches, and the ocean nips at his toes, warm as bathwater.   
“Need to get some sunscreen on you.” Grave’s voice comes gruff and low. Credence spins dizzy-quick to look at him, beholding the dark Ray-Bans, red swim trunks, the casual canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Already so much better suited to this new, scorching Eden than Credence ever will be.   
He flies to Graves. The kiss he gives him is more teeth than sweetness, at first, but it’s bald-faced in its intensity, and Credence is utterly satisfied with the sound of Grave’s surprised grunt.   
For the first time, Credence realizes that he’s taller than Graves; all things considered, five years of freedom hefted and contemplated in hand, he still has a little bit of pious bend to his spine that makes these sorts of revelations terrifying. He wants to be small, in this. He wants to look up to Graves.   
Credence opens his eyes a moment, turning timid in the kiss, no heading to follow because the lovely, hot jolt of his brazenness has since cooled, stretched thin—Graves raises one huge, rough hand to cradle Credence’s skull and guides the angle, neatly slides his tongue deep into Credence’s mouth. Ah, Credence whimpers, feeling the humidity of the island press the sweat out of his body and onto Grave’s breathable cotton over-shirt. Ah. This could make him hard. Graves bites his lower lip, and it does. 

(This is what Newt always said he loved about him: responsiveness. Making Credence come in triplicate over the course of an evening, just to see if he could. Because he could, Credence running on an endless libido built of eighteen years worth of hoarded orgasms, Newt running on curiosity. Look at you, you absolute marvel, let’s see if you can give me another… until Credence was spent beyond reckoning. Of course, it had been experiment of sorts. None of it real, none of it mattering. You can—leave, if you want. I understand. Labels like ‘asexual’ and ‘aromantic’ tossed around like so much ice water on Credence’s new, new heart.) 

But this is not Newt. This is Percival Graves, and he’s twenty years older than Credence, and it’s been three years, so. 

It’s also not their first kiss. Their first kiss was (Credence flushes) two months ago, in the men’s bathroom at the Denver airport, Credence seated on the wet countertop and Graves, uniformed, between his legs. Graves will eventually joke that this, the paradise, will one day almost make up for the ugliness of their initial wooing. Cramped bathrooms, hasty stopovers, the clamor and grime of airports and bleary red-eye shifts. Credence will counter that there’s some sort of unique, clichéd beauty to getting fingered in two different time zones over the course of one day—or countries, if they had the particular drudgery of flying international. Pilot screwing his flight crew. How very Pan-Am of us. Ha ha, Graves will say, too busy reenacting the cliché to muse on it, both hands too full of Credence’s asscheeks to give much attention to anything else. 

You think you’re so clever. 

They kiss until Credence really can feel sunburn forming across his bare forearms, his calves, and the heat is making him pant into Grave’s mouth like a parched puppy.   
“Let’s get you something to drink,” Graves says, pulling back, as if Credence hasn’t just been drinking thirstily of his lips—as if he couldn’t be sustained by them—and tugs him along by the wrist. They head back to the bungalow. A chicken has wandered into their modest yard while they were away; Credence sits at the patio table and flicks pebbles for it to chase while Graves gets them drinks from the kitchen, feeling a little guilty at the canvas tote sitting unused against the table leg, afternoon plans aborted.   
Graves comes out of the darkened screen door with two tall, sweating glasses of juice. He hands one to Credence.   
Credence takes a careful sip and holds it in his mouth a moment, cupping the cool ice with his feverish tongue. It’s delicious. Vividly sweet. Pineapple, mango, other unnamable fruit so far from New-York-drear it’s almost funny. He finds himself humming around the mouthful before swallowing, then taking another, then another. Eventually, he realizes that Graves is just watching him, his own glass leaving a water ring on the glass table top. When their eyes finally catch, Graves stuffs a hand into the pocket of his swim trunks and pulls out his iPhone.   
“May I?” he asks, gesturing with it. He wants to take Credence’s picture. Credence blushes; he can count on one hand the number of pictures of himself that were taken before he left the Home. Not many have been taken afterwards, either, though that’s by choice. He can feel good about that.  
“Um, sure,” he says. Should he smile? Should he suck the straw into his mouth, pose like a coquettish, candid girl might? Finally he settles for an awkward, close-lipped grimace, glass raised to mostly cover his mouth, as if waiting to take a sip. He wished he had a pair of those gaudy, oversized sunglasses to cover his face with, but squints into the camera, instead. He tries not to imagine what he must look like: a sweaty, scrawny boy, a tourist, too pale against the island’s brightness.   
“S’ Cute,” Graves mutters after a beat, and Credence can feel the flush climbing down his neck. “I’ll send it later.”  
No service, no wifi. Communications blackout. At once, Credence remembers: “I need—I need to find a computer.”   
He swirls the ice around in his drink, looking down at their sandals, which are nearly tangled, now, under the table.  
“Hm? What for?”  
“I need to get in contact with somebody.”  
“Who? Is something the matter?” Graves has reached across the table, and for a moment, Credence hasn’t the faintest as to why—until he tucks a strand of hair behind Credence’s ear. They’re close now, so close that Credence can read the thick artery pulsing in Grave’s tan neck, trying to dispel the heat.   
“Oh, nothing’s the matter. I just told Tina I would, you know. Get in touch.”   
Graves seems to be looking through Credence, at something he himself doesn’t understand. Some hidden curiosity. Credence marvels at the length of Grave’s eyelashes.   
“Tina, huh?” Graves gaze continues on, and on. He’s looking at Credence’s mouth, now, and his lashes are even darker and sweeter, flicked demurely down.   
“My neighbor. She’s a good lady,” Credence blurts, suddenly compelled to explain all of her, every dogeared, too-gentle piece.   
Graves leans closer. “You don’t want to enjoy this? Just the two of us?” His breath ghosts over Credence’s face, who gasps it in; a hand is making its way up the open leg of his shorts beneath the table, blistering when it’s already humid. It stops just before the crook of his thigh because the thickness of Grave’s wrist won’t allow it any further, but the handprint burns like a coal all up and down his groin.   
Graves is blurry-close now, and Credence can hear the wet sounds of his mouth as he—oh, Lord, as he extends the tip of his tongue to trace the seam of Credence’s lips in a hot, heavy line.   
“Don’t think it would—Not exactly—“ Credence mumbles, swallowing into himself, consonants bumping and fumbling against the feverish, muscular press of tongue. He trembles. Swoons. The hand in his shorts has given up one tactic in place of another; there’s pressure on the plane of his belly, then the shimmy of elastic down his hips, a cue that zaps Credence’s spine up-n-down so fast it burns. 

Graves pulls away. “There’s a place in town that has internet. I’ll take you there, later. Tomorrow.”

The sweat-pasted curl on Grave’s forehead makes Credence’s heart ache, somehow.

“Oh—okay.”

The hand on Credence’s stomach slips round the jut of his hip to get a grip from behind, and then Graves is hoisting him into his lap, making the shitty metal patio furniture squeal on the concrete. Down, the hand goes, down, cupping and feeling the cleft of his ass, on each other like animals. Later, Graves whispers into his mouth, the tickle of his dark leg hair rubbing against khaki when Credence wants it to be tickling the white insides of his thighs, instead. Graves kisses like he wants to eat him, hiking his stupid shirt up his back like he could consume him that way, too, just with hands on skin, snip-snap of jaws. Credence feels his eyes flutter closed. At once, there are fingers playing at his bottom lip, the grill of his teeth, and he opens: the juice—no it’s nectar, too thick and too decadent to be anything else—slips in, just for a moment, to taste, to show.  
And then the fingers are playing at his hole, slimycold but also so, so good, too good, thick as they swirl and tease at pushing in.   
Credence gasps from somewhere deep in his chest.   
“Fuck, kid,” Graves groans, kneading him harder, sliding in his ring finger to rub raw next to his middle one, already sunk deep. Credence can feel the rasp of stubble against his cheek; a part of him relishes admitting his arousal right straight to Grave’s indefensible ear, chin to shoulder, the sweetest secret. Skewering him, he hopes, so they’ll match.   
Graves manhandles Credence’s asscheek like so much rosy, sun-swollen fruit, gauging him to be ripe, unripe; he fucks more little moans from Credence’s mouth with the sticky, sweet nectar. They rut and wail, right there on the patio. Time goes gummy and insubstantial, here in their own staked-out corner of heaven, heads too heavy and full of perfume—or sweat-reek—to loll anywhere but towards each other: forehead to forehead. Credence feels the hot wuff of Grave’s open mouth breathing right into his as meaningless, devastating words come out.   
“Lookit’ you, letting me fuck this pussy right here on the porch, god damn, Credence, baby--”  
But Credence comes in the sweltering, rumpled space between their bodies to the echo of later, low-down murmur from a low-down man, relishing the underlayer. Writhes to the tired, long sighs of the sun, sagging down in the sky with the exhaustion of the day, pinkening the yard. 

The bugs hiss and the ocean gashes its forehead against the reef, far away from the heat of their two bodies. Credence closes his eyes and prays to never move from this second, this spot. 

Later, in Grave’s voice. Later, later.

**Author's Note:**

> tbc............. if i get my shit together. 
> 
> guess my identity down below :) likes and comments much obliged


End file.
